Enjolras' Mother
by mireille08
Summary: Enjolras' mother writes to her son before he goes to fight on the barricade, and tells him of her life in Paris during the French Revolution. This is a story I wrote a long time ago on my website. I'm publishing it, in slightly revised form, in honor of Barricade Day. (Yes, I know it's a little late.)


Enjolaras' Mother  
June 4, 1832

My son, why must you sacrifice your life and the lives of all your friends? Is the Republic really worth it if you are not alive to see it? Why do you wish for martyrdom? And what good will the Republic be for me if it comes at the cost of my only son's life? I know how we both long for the Republic. With your high ideals, you see nothing but good coming from it. But, my dearest son, I have lived through the Terror of 1794, and I have seen how a republic, established with nothing but good intentions, can fall into the hands of monsters with nothing but blood and hate on their minds. Your own grandfather-my father, for whom I named you (against your father's strong objections, I remember)-was a victim of the Terror. Enjolras, when I look at you, sometimes I see him looking back at me. You have his face: his fiery eyes and his high forehead, although your blond hair is your father's. My father, too, was an idealist. "The Republic will benefit all of humanity," he said to me in 1792. I was only a child at the time, but how well I remember.

Why have I not told you this before? At first you were too young to understand. Then, when you grew older, I hardly ever saw you. As soon as you were old enough, you went to the University and devoted your whole time to your studies, just as you now devote it to your cause. And you would spend entire nights in the streets among the poor, so that you would better know their way of life, which you wish to improve. No, my son, you never gave me time to tell you of my childhood. On this night, before you and your friends go to build your barricade and fight for freedom, let me tell you my story.

You know that I was born in Spain. I remember very little of my life there, because I was so young when we came to France. All I know is that we were wealthy. Not as wealthy as your father is today, but wealthy all the same. My father was a lawyer. (How proud I was of you when you went to study law, "to put an end to all injustice", as you said. It was my father's wish as well.) In 1789, when revolution broke out in France, my father was ecstatic. I was only five years old then. My father took me on his knee and said, more to my mother than to me, "The years to come will be the beginning of a golden age. There will be no more war, no more poverty, and no more hunger. All people will learn to love each other. No children will starve because their fathers can't get work, and no one will be forced out on the streets, because everyone will have a home." Enjolras, the last time we had a serious conversation (when was that? A month ago?) you said much the same thing to me. I should have told you then about my father, but all I could do was shake my head and turn aside.

My father no longer wished to stay in Spain. All he could think of was France, "the land of freedom", as he said. And so my family-my parents, my older sister, and I-left Spain and came to live in the city of Marseille. In spite of our being Spanish, the people there welcomed us as friends of the Revolution, and my father became a respected citizen. (We were only one of many families who came to France in those days, not only from Spain, but from all over Europe. How high our hopes were, and how terribly they were destroyed!)

If only things had stayed as they were in those early days of the Revolution! But no, the monsters had to come, to turn our dream of a golden age into a nightmare of blood and terror. Late in 1793, the city council of Marseille sent my father on a mission to Paris. My mother, my sister, and I went with him because we knew he would be there for several months at least. We lived in a wealthy neighborhood and my father knew some of the revolutionary leaders personally. Soon, though, he was bitterly disillusioned. Every day we saw a new group of prisoners going to the guillotine. Many of them had not even done anything wrong. My father said that the Terror must stop. Unfortunately, Robespierre found out about my father's words and had him arrested. A few days later, he was guillotined, and my family lost everything we had.

Enjolras, in one of your fiery debates with your father last year, I heard you say, "Robespierre was a giant!" Nothing you have said has ever hurt me more. Robespierre was a monster. How could you so admire the man who killed your grandfather? Of course, you did not know that at the time. It is so painful for me to tell you now, but you must know this before you go to fight for the Republic. Even though you did not know how your grandfather died, you should have known that Robespierre killed many other innocent people. Your friend Combeferre will tell you this. I have spoken with him a few times and I have seen that he has no admiration for Robespierre.

How did I live after my father's death, you ask me? My mother, my sister, and I were forced into a life of poverty. We had to leave our comfortable house and move to the slums of Paris. My mother became deathly ill. She never completely regained her strength. My sister had to work as a washerwoman to support her, and I, who was only ten years old, had to beg in the streets. Our life-if you can call it a life-in the slums lasted for five years or more. If it hadn't been for the kindness of a wealthy young man who was our neighbor in better days, this horrible life might have lasted forever. The young man had left the country as a royalist but returned a few years later, after Robespierre's downfall. Yes, Enjolras, this young man was your father.

You and your father can no longer speak to each other without fighting. He is an unbending royalist. I know this all too well. But, Enjolras, your father is a good man. You must believe me, and forgive him for his politics. He rescued my family from our poverty and, when I turned seventeen, we were married.

Your father condemns your revolution now, but he only wants what is best for you, as he sees it. Above all, he wants you to live. As do I, my dearest son, more than anything else in the world. Unlike your father, I understand your dream of a better world to come. You might think that I would hate the thought of a republic after what happened to my father. But no, I wish for a republic, too: one that is closer to what my father dreamed of, before France fell into the hands of evil men. You say that is what you wish for, too. But why this sacrifice? My father sacrificed his life for his ideals when he spoke out against the Terror. Enjolras, it frightens me to think that you too would sacrifice yourself. To see the two people I have loved most in the world give their lives for their ideal republic! Don't you understand how horrible that is for me? I want France to be a republic, but I want you to be alive to see it.

And think of your friends, too. Over the past few years you have been their leader. I have seen the inner fire in your eyes as you speak to them of revolution. What a hold you have over them! (Even the few times you have brought them to our house, I have seen this.) Every one of them would die for you. I think of them now: Courfeyrac, Joly, Lesgle, Bahorel, Feuilly the workingman who taught himself to read and write, the gentle poet Jean Prouvaire, the philosopher Combeferre (I liked Combeferre from the first time I met him, four years ago. He would be a good influence on you, I thought.) Even the drunken Grantaire-don't you realize that he worships you as a hero although you speak of him with contempt? But above all there is young Marius Pontmercy. He is the youngest of your group. You do not take much notice of him now, but he looks up to you as an older brother. I have seen Marius only once, but even in that brief time I could tell what he feels for you. They tell me now that Marius is deeply in love. (What was the young woman's name? I do not recall.) Having never been in love yourself, I'm not sure you completely understand what this means. If Marius dies tomorrow on the barricade, can you imagine how that young woman will feel? Enjolras, let them enjoy a happy life together! I hate the thought that any of these young men will sacrifice their lives.

"But how will we be free unless we fight for our freedom?" you ask. "It will cost lives, but the goal is worth the sacrifice." My dear son, I cannot answer that. If only I could be sure that, of all the people of Paris who are going to fight tomorrow, you and your friends would survive. But instead I have the feeling that some, or even all of you, will die. By telling you my father's story, I am giving you a warning of what the French Republic can turn into. Then perhaps you can decide for yourself if it is worth the cost. And, my dearest son, remember that I love you, no matter what you decide to do.


End file.
